Nothing but Rutledges this month and not that many of them, given the mindless exercise that reading mysteries is:
A Long Shadow
The Confession
A Lonely Death
Search the Dark
Watchers of Time
A Pale Horse
Proof of Guilt
Hunting Shadows
But October was a brainless month, all URI and tiredness and ache, not in any way conducive to ambition. For some reason I don't surfeit on Rutledge the way I do on most British inspectors. (Now that someone has usefully informed me that the Inspector Morse rubric is 'the love interest is either the murderer or the next victim' I can toss my Inspector Morse omnibus with relief.)
Did read one Zen Cho story, in an anthology, which was as good as one expects bravecows afrai to be; did reread some Thich Nhat Hanh to counteract illness-induced depression. Am on the second-to-last Rutledge, in which two people are being more stupid than I think I can stand. Also they (the authors) commit one of those 'my kingdom for a literate copy editor' errors: ex-patriot to mean someone living abroad, not someone who was once gung-ho 'my country right or wrong' and has since thought better of it.
